


Fall Back

by the_boy_and_his_wolf



Category: Sterek - Fandom, Stiles x Derek - Fandom, teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, Pining, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Sort of Sex, Stiles x Derek - Freeform, happy fluffy ending, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_boy_and_his_wolf/pseuds/the_boy_and_his_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has spent an entire year avoiding Beacon Hills and getting over his feelings for Derek (or so he thinks), so it's really kind of inconvenient that every time he sees Derek he just falls back. </p><p>Or: a lesson in ways not to try and get over someone you're in love with, and evidence of Stiles and Derek being oblivious as hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Back

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic, and the original idea of it is based on Cimorelli's song 'Fall Back', but that was really just an idea that spiralled out of control into something completely different. 
> 
> As always, this is a product of my insane habit of procrastinating from things I need to get done in the real world, so enjoy the works of someone who is for sure going to fail her degree *pained smile*.

Stiles leans back in his chair and breathes a sigh of relief. The kind of relief you can only feel after submitting your last assignment due for the year, 7 minutes before the deadline. He can smell the freedom in the air and finds himself saying internal ‘fuck you’s to all the things he’d been doing every single day of the last month that made him want to _die;_ fuck you to entire nights at the library, fuck you to the recurring nightmare where his computer crashes just as he goes to submit his work, fuck you to the jitters, extreme even for him, and fuck you to the sickening feeling of not being able to do anything, _anything_ that wasn't study-related without feeling extreme guilt. 

Seven minutes later, at exactly midnight, Stiles’ phone buzzes on the tiny desk of his dorm room. He flails around looking for it beneath the papers that are covering every inch of the wooden desktop. When he finds it, he sees Scott’s picture smiling up at him and _of course._ Of course Scott would call to check he’d submitted on time.

“Hey, man,” Stiles smiles, leaning back in his chair.

“Is it done? Are you finally free?”

“Yep!”

Scott lets out a gleeful laugh that makes him feel all warm and content. The two of them had phoned each other pretty much every day of the last week, and their conversations had consisted of them stress-talking at each other, giving each other fervent encouragement, reading lines out of each other’s papers to check they made sense. Scott had finished his last exam the day before, and Stiles had felt sort of guilty that he couldn't really be happy for his friend due to the fact that he still had 2,500 words of his assignment to finish in a day. Now, though, now they could celebrate.

“Want a game of COD?” Stiles asks, already setting up the Xbox, which, OK, doesn't technically belong to him, but Stiles had made it quite clear upon first meeting Jack. his room-mate, that there was no way he would be able to respect someone who could bring an Xbox and TV into a twin dorm room and not vow to allow his room-mate to use said Xbox and TV as his own. 

Five minutes later, and they are killing zombies together, laughing in a way that Stiles hasn't laughed in weeks. His laugh recently has mostly just sounded manic and/or delirious.

“So,” Scott says, while topping up on ammo and jug between rounds. It's the kind of 'so' someone says that means they are about to approach a subject they totally know the other person isn't comfortable with. “You’re coming back this summer, right?”

Stiles stabs a zombie and swallows. “Yeah, dude, of course. Just because I didn’t submit and then travel straight home, like you, because I'm not an excitable puppy,  doesn't mean I'm not going to come home.”

“Hey, I missed everyone.” Read: Allison. “And, well – dude watch your back they’re coming down the stairs! – well I felt I had to ask, since you've been avoiding Beacon Hills like the plague since you left.”

“I have not, Scott.” Lies. “I've had perfectly valid reasons for not being around. But there’s no fucking way I’d leave my best bud alone, without me, for a whole summer. Not to mention my dad would literally drive over here and drag my sorry ass home at even the suggestion of me staying.” Not to mention, Stiles’ dorm wasn't available for him during the summer, but there was no way he was going to admit to checking.

If someone had told him nine months ago, as he hugged everyone goodbye, wiped discreet tears away as he hugged Scott, and swallowed down the nervous lump in his throat as he left Beacon Hills for NYU, that he wouldn't see any of them again until the summer, he would have told that person that they were on some kind of drugs. He had no intention of being such a massive wimp, but when Thanksgiving rolled around he thought of what going back would mean and he found himself getting panicky. He’d missed everyone so much it felt like it physically hurt sometimes, but no matter how much missing them hurt, it didn’t fuck him up as much as being there, around them. Around Derek. Not that he hadn't missed the fucker, of course he had, more than anything, especially to begin with. But it had gotten easier to deal with and, by Thanksgiving he could have meaningless one night stands because he'd finally stopped comparing every potential hook-up to a Derek. He could sleep at night without spending hours in bed beforehand pining like the antagonist of some teenage chick-flick, could wake up in the morning without worrying about how much of the day he was going to spend analysing frowns and wanting to kiss them all off his face and replace them with that bright smile that Stiles _knew_ Derekwas capable of.

So, when Thanksgiving came around, Stiles phoned his dad and asked if they could spend it with his grandma. And Christmas, too. His dad had seemed confused but also quite relieved.

“I’d expected to have to physically drag you away from your friends so we could even get a visit to grandma in.” He had said. “And now you’re saying you want to spend the whole holiday there?”

Scott had been confused, too, but when Stiles explained that they hadn't spent enough time with his grandma since his mom died, Scott had understood.

To say he’d been a whole lot less forgiving come spring break would be an understatement. He didn’t get mad, of course, Scott never got mad, he just puppy-dog eyes you so hard that you feel like you could drown in the guilt, so Stiles had told him over the phone and refused to FaceTime with him for weeks afterwards. Lydia was another story. Lydia was _mad._

“What the fucking fuck, Stiles?” she’d raged down the phone. “My auntie is letting us have the lake house for the whole two weeks, everyone is going to be there! You’re going to be there!”

But Stiles hadn't been there. He’d actually felt like there was some higher force helping him out because he’d been panicking about having to go back to Beacon Hills for spring break, and then when he’d heard that the whole group were going away it was like he was being individually blessed. Which isn't something Stiles is used to, since the entire universe seemed to want to fuck him over in every other instance of his life. 

Now, though, there is no way he is getting out of going back. He has three and a half months off for the summer, he isn't allowed to stay in his dorm, he needs the money from his old job at the library, and he genuinely believes that Lydia will come and castrate him if he doesn't make an appearance. He is also vaguely concerned that his dad has eaten nothing but microwaveable meals since he left, which is no good.

“Well, good,” Scott says, sounding sulky. “I've missed you.”

“I've missed you too, dude.”

And, damn if that isn't the truth.

He just hopes to God that whatever feelings that consumed him concerning Derek before he left would stay at least a little bit chilled. Stiles knows they won’t have disappeared completely, because being in love with someone the way Stiles was in love doesn't disappear. But maybe they wouldn't come back with so much _vengeance._ That would be nice.

But then again, when does anything nice ever happen to Stiles?

* * * 

 

Come six the next day, Stiles is diving arms-first towards his Dad, hanging onto him for a good half-a-minute before doing the bro-hug slap on the back. He doesn't want it to seem like he is four years old and has missed his dad so much that he is happy to cling on, without any bro-hug slaps, for a good few minutes. Even though that is totally the truth. 

“Nice to see you, kid,” his dad smiles. “Everyone has missed you. Scott begged me to let him come and pick you up with me, but Melissa talked him down.”

Stiles laughs. “Sounds like Scott,” he says. “So, does that mean you've been spending time at the McCall residence?”

The Sheriff rolls his eyes, slinging an arm around Stiles and walking towards the car. “Only so we can both complain about how much we've missed our sons.”

“Yeah, right, Dad. That and so you can eat Melissa’s food and not have to cook anything for yourself, right?” The Sheriff looks shifty and Stiles snorts. Hey, Melissa’s cooking is a step up from microwaveable meals, so he isn't going to complain too much.

The whole ride home Stiles rambles on about his classes, his professor, his room-mate. When he asks his dad how things have been in Beacon Hills, he actually means in terms of human crime-fighting, but isn't all that surprised that he answers on the more supernatural side of things. He guesses the two of them were pretty tightly bound together, nowadays.

“Things have still been pretty quiet, there’s been nothing Derek, Boyd, Erica and Argent haven’t been able to handle on their own.”

Huh. The Pack and Argent, that’s new. Sure, they hadn't been trying to kill each other for a while, and Argent had proven helpful in some of their many life threatening situations, but the idea of them explicitly working together doesn't sit right with Stiles. Or maybe it’s just the idea of the whole supernatural thing going down without the whole pack there to get through it. 

Stiles was happy that Erica and Boyd had decided to go to a local college, so that they could stay with Derek. He and Scott had worked hard senior year to bring the pack closer together, they’d had many ‘pack meetings’, aka an excuse to use Derek’s loft as a base to watch movies, drink beer and chill. Technically, Derek had his own pack with Boyd and Erica, and Scott had Isaac and Lydia (and Allison and Stiles, Scott always insisted), but technicalities weren't worth shit when one of them was in trouble. They stuck together, always. By the end of the year, Stiles would have bet that Erica would risk her life for Lydia, and Scott would do the same for Boyd.

“Are you seeing your friends tonight?” his dad asks, when they are finished eating.

“We don’t have any plans to,” Stiles says. “But I just text Scott and told him I was home, so I reckon he’ll be here in the next-” He’s interrupted by the doorbell, and Stiles grins an ‘I told you so’, at his dad, before pushing his chair away from the dining table and all but running to the front door.

Remember earlier when Stiles didn’t want to seem like a baby and hug his dad for too long? Yeah, well Scott knows no such restriction. He doesn't let go of Stiles for a good minute, and Stiles swears he sniffs into his neck a couple of times.

“Dude, are you _scenting_ me?”

“Yeah, you smell weird.” Scott says, unashamed.

“Jack sometimes leaves take-away boxes in our dorm room for _years_ I probably smell of, like, ten day old KFC.”

Scott sniffs again and then pulls away, with the goofiest smile on his face. Stiles hopes his own smile doesn't look quite so fucking _whipped._ “I can still smell you, just.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

Scott says a quick hi to the Sheriff, then he’s walking towards the door again.

“Whoa, you’re leaving so soon?” Stiles says, with a sinking feeling. He’d hoped they were going to play video games and eat shit like, all night.

Scott looks confused. “We’re going to Derek’s. Everyone is already there.”

Stiles traitorous heart stammers and he winces, because he knows Scott can hear that. One part of him is thinking ‘fuck it’, he yearns to see everyone so badly, would probably give his left hand to see Lydia and her perfect strawberry blonde hair, to have Erica punch him on the arm like the annoying big sister he never had, to mock Isaac for saying something pointless and ridiculous, to watch Boyd silently judging everyone. But he’s _terrified._ He’s so scared of seeing Derek and feeling everything he felt before he left. Unrequited love fucking sucks. The fact that Stiles has gone so long without seeing any of his best friends is a pretty good indicator of how annoying he found it to be in love with Derek Hale. 

“Stiles?” Scott queries, eyebrows knotting together.

“You know what, man, I think I'm just going to stay in with my dad, tonight.”

He sees Scott’s face drop, sees the internal battle between being insistent and being understanding. “OK, man, I get it. We’re hanging out tomorrow night though.”

“Um, _yeah_ we are!” Stiles assures him, nodding fervently. 

Scott grins. He’s easily reassured. “OK, but just fair warning: Erica and Lydia are probably going to claim one of your testicles each, for not showing up tonight. Lydia is still not over Spring Break.”

Stiles laughs, because he’s mostly sure Scott is joking. “I'm sure my best-bro-forward-stroke-alpha won’t let that happen.”

“Eh, I don’t know. I was pretty bummed about Spring Break, too.” Scott teases, before giving Stiles another bone-crushing hug.

 

* * * 

 

It’s just after eleven when Stiles goes to make him and his dad a mug of hot chocolate. They’ve got the Avengers paused in the living room, and his dad is already comfortable on the couch.

It isn't until the chocolate powder is already in the mugs (five scoops for Stiles, three for his dad), that Stiles goes to the fridge and makes the horrific realisation.

“Dad!” he yells. “We’re out of milk.”

“Crap, I was meant to grab some on the way back from the airport earlier. Never mind, kid, just use hot water.”

Stiles very nearly gags at the atrocity of such a suggestion. “Are you kidding me? We’re not _cavemen,_ Dad.” There’s quiet laughing from the other room. “I’ll go and pick some up quickly, we’ll need it for the morning anyway, right?”

His dad sighs, probably because he has work in the morning and doesn't want to wait for Stiles to go to the store before watching the two hour movie. Stiles sympathises, he does, but he’s already put the powder in the mug now, and he freaking loves hot chocolate with a movie.

It takes him five minutes to drive to the store, and he spends the whole drive feeling like he has been reunited with a lover, even if that lover stop-starts a couple of times and sounds like she’s about to make a widow out of him.

He decides pretty soon after entering the shop that his sweet tooth is calling for him to buy many things other than milk, so he gets a small shopping cart, grabs some milk from the fridges and heads straight over to the junk food aisle. He has the cart half way full of Doritos, Reese’s peanut butter cups and a big bottle of Dr Pepper when he bumps into Derek.

Literally bumps into him. Because his life is a cheesy rom-com. Although without the romance and with a very cruel version of comedy. He doesn’t realise at first, is doing the whole pushing-the-cart-really-hard-and-then-letting-it-hold-his-weight thing so he’s rolling down the aisle pretty quickly when another cart collides with his and he’s being pushed onto the cool linoleum.

“Shit, my bad!” he yells, sticking his hand in the air. Even though he’s pretty sure he’s come off worse in this collision, he still wants to be polite.

“Stiles?”

His stomach drops and he closes his eyes for a few seconds in disbelief, because of fucking course this would happen to him. When he actively avoids this guy, of _course_ he’s going to be the only other costumer in the whole freaking store at half eleven at night. When he slowly opens his eyes again, Derek is standing in front of him, looking down with a look of amusement.

He doesn't help him stand up, either, which is annoying because Stiles is clearly struggling, floundering there on the store floor, damning God for making his life what it is.

“Hey, dude!” he says, leaning against his cart in exhaustion having finally pulled himself up. “I'm good, by the way.”

Derek doesn't look concerned in the least, he’s just raising those insane eyebrows of his.

“You, er, you buying” he leans and looks into Derek’s cart. “Chips and dips? Nice, nice. And beer? Thought that didn’t do much for you.”

“It’s for Lydia and Allison.” Derek says.

“Right! Of course it is, because they’re… there. At the loft.” Stiles says, wanting to bolt more than he’s wanted anything, ever. Well maybe there’s one thing he’s wanted more, but this comes as a pretty close second.

“I don’t live at the loft any more.” Derek says and that makes Stiles straighten up a bit.

“No?”

“No, they finished refurbishing the mansion. I moved in there a couple of months ago.”

Stiles frowns, because he’s thinking of Derek alone in that massive house in the middle of the woods and it’s reminding him too much of the miserable man he knew just after Scott was bitten, the Derek who had so little social interaction that he literally did not know how to communicate without threats and growls. Stiles doesn’t like to think of Derek that way.

“That’s a lot of house for one person.” He says, chewing his lip a little.

“Boyd and Erica moved in. And Isaac stays, when he's home from college.”

Stiles breathes a little easier. “That’s great, man.”

It’s awkward, then. Stiles looks up from where he’s been kicking the wheel of his shopping cart, and Derek is looking at him with those stupid eyes. Stupid because Stiles can’t work out what the fuck colour they’re meant to be, and stupid because they are intense and overbearing, and stupid because Stiles has spent far too much of his time thinking about them, and just when he’s finally beginning to stop thinking about them and comparing every pair of eyes he sees to them, they’re here again, doing this. Looking at him.

“Lydia and Erica are planning your demise.” Derek informs him. “In detail.”

“That’s… incredibly concerning.” Stiles swallows hard. “But I already had this conversation with Scott and he promised me that, as my best friend and alpha, he won’t let them kill me.”

“Erica and Lydia are pretty strong, especially together.”

Stiles huffs. “When did they stop bickering long enough to make alliances?”

“I don’t know.” Derek pauses. “Maybe it was during thanksgiving, or maybe it was Christmas. Or the two weeks they spent together at Spring Break.”

Stiles eyes widen in surprise. It is way out of character for Derek to be throwing this kind of shade. It is way out of character for Derek to _care_ enough about whether or not he shows up to social gatherings to be throwing this kind of shade.

“You- Um, yeah, I guess it could have been any of those times.”

He’d had Lydia on the phone, literally implying that he’s ruining the whole pack dynamic, that he’s letting his whole family down and causing severe heartache for many people, but he’s never felt guiltier about not coming home as he does when Derek looks at him like that. It’s a stormy look, and, listen, Stiles can deal with anger. Derek seems to spend half his life angry with Stiles, but there’s a slight downward tilt to his mouth and Stiles absolutely cannot be the reason for that.

“There were good reasons I had, for not coming back, there was my grandma, and-“

“I know, Stiles.” Derek says, softer than he is expecting. “I just – We _all_ just missed you.”

Stiles can hardly breathe, because if there is one thing he could have really done with Derek not saying, it’s this. Jesus Christ, how is he expected to get over any kind of feelings without completely disowning himself from the pack, if after a whole minute of seeing Derek he is already falling straight fucking _back._

“Aw, sourwolf,” Stiles coos, giving himself a mental high-five for managing to keep his voice sounding light and teasing. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“You’re an idiot,” Derek sighs, but there’s amusement in his eyes once he’s done rolling them. “Well, better go back to feed the five thousand,” he indicates at his cart and Stiles nods. He takes a step forward and there’s this look on his face like he wants to do something, and for a heart-stopping moment Stiles thinks he’s going to hug him. Eventually, there’s just a clap on the shoulder, and a slight squeeze of his neck. Derek’s hands are warm, and when he pulls them back Stiles feels his skin tingling. “It was really good seeing you, Stiles.”

 _Yeah,_ Stiles thinks, _good the same way burning in the fiery pits of hell is good._

 

* * *  

After the disappointing realisation that Stiles is, in fact, as completely and utterly gone for Derek as he was a year ago, he goes through three phases.  
  
Phase 1 is called 'completely and utterly avoiding any interaction with Derek at any cost'. And, retrospectively, it’s probably a dumb fucking idea because it clearly hasn't worked for him so far. But then, no interaction means no making a fool out of himself. No awkward questions about his scent which much scream all sorts of embarrassing things. He doesn't know which is worse: the smell of arousal that must notify everyone that he wants to be all up on Derek, or the way his heart jack-rabbits every time Derek so much as fucking smiles at him which tells everyone that as well as getting all up in that, he also wants to like, hold hands with that, and cuddle with that. Fuck, he's pretty sure he wants to _marry_ that and raise adorable half-werewolves. His heart clenches painfully at the thought.   
  
Like he said: Stiles has fallen way waaay back.   
  
So, he tells his boss at the library that we wants all of the shifts available, and uses that as an excuse to not attend any pack meetings. He manages to see the rest of the pack – plays lacrosse with Scott and Isaac after work when they are both free, invites Erica and Boyd over for dinner on a night he knows there is no pack meeting, and often Lydia spends whole days at the library to keep him company (because, despite her original thump on the arm after seeing him, she had pulled him in a hug that competed with Scott’s and Stiles realised that Lydia is all talk and no trousers). What he doesn’t do, under any circumstance, is agree to go to a pack meeting.  
  
The thing is, when he's asked to attend every. single. day. there's only so many excuses that can sound legit before they all start becoming screamingly obvious ways of avoiding it. He guesses that they've all figured it out by now. There’s only one person he hasn't voluntary hung out with since coming back, so his secret is probably out, but it wouldn't be any easier hiding it if he was there, they’re a group of _werewolves_ for fuck’s sake.  
  
There are two things which make him give up on phase 1. The first thing is Lydia. She bangs on his door one Friday afternoon and Stiles isn't a werewolf who can smell emotions and stuff but he can hear the way the whole porch shakes under her fist and so he knows she's mad.   
  
He opens the door and she flounces in, her hair bouncing behind her, and her eyes fiery and determined.   
  
"I have had enough of this, Stiles."   
  
Stiles winces as she jabs a finger into his chest.   
  
"What?"   
  
Lydia scoffs. "Honestly, don't with me right now. You have two options. You either _tell him._ Or you just learn to deal with it. I suggest the former."   
  
"Lydia I don't know what you're-"   
  
"Stiles."   
  
And really, what is the point of denying it? To Lydia of all people? Lydia who probably had an idea of the way Stiles feels about Derek long before he did himself. She doesn't need werewolf senses to suss things out, she's just brilliantly intuitive, it's both impressive and maddening. So he sighs and tries a different approach.   
  
"I really do have to work, I can show you my schedule if you want."   
  
"Oh, I have no doubts that you went so far to avoid your feelings that you agreed to work every hour under the sun." Lydia says, her tone scathing in a way that makes Stiles shrink into himself. "But the library shuts at ten, Stiles. And tonight’s pack meeting, coincidentally, starts at ten." She beams at him, looking all kinds of smug.   
  
"Lydia..."  
  
"Stiles. Why does this matter so much? This is so unlike you. When you had a crush on me you were constantly _there_. How come you're suddenly someone who hides from their crush?"   
  
Stiles just looks at her, because he can't say the words out loud.   
  
His crush level on Lydia was 10/10. He found her beautiful and intimidating and brilliant. He wanted to kiss her lip-glossed lips and run his hands through her strawberry blonde hair. Mostly he just wanted her to notice him the way he noticed her. And they could have been happy together, maybe, who knows. It had felt all-consuming at the time, the way all teenage crushes do. But it wasn't the same thing.  
  
Lydia was always an impossibility. Whereas Derek feels like _the_ impossibility. The fantasy of being with Lydia was more fun than it was crushing. Yeah, sometimes he got bummed out by her obvious disinterest, but mostly he just enjoyed the chase. This thing with Derek, it's like … Derek's it for him. He's never going to want someone more than he wants Derek, is never going to be more pathetically attracted to someone. Lydia used to turn him down on pretty much a daily basis and he’d get up and try again. He doesn’t know what he’d do with that kind of rejection from Derek.  
  
Lydia's eyes widen. "Oh."  
  
"Yeah," Stiles says, frustrated. "So..."  
  
"So nothing, Stiles! This changes nothing. We need you to come back to pack meetings, OK that's it. Just, you need to try. You dealt with it before leaving and you need to just _try_ and do the same again. We all miss you."   
  
Then she just sighs, pulls him into a tight hug and is gone again.

He ponders over Lydia’s words a lot that evening at the library, but the fact is that when his shift finishes at ten, he stops for a minute at the turning towards the preserve, towards the Hale mansion, and he still turns the other way, back home. It’s when he pulls up, sees his phone light up on the passenger seat, and reads the text that he really decides to end Phase 1.

**Come over tonight.**

Sent at 10:12. And then, at 10:14:

**Please.**

Stiles blames it on the fact that it took Derek two minutes of thinking to realise that he should probably add the ‘please’ - and that’s fucking cute, ok - but he replies within seconds.

**Ok**

He turns the engine back on and is driving towards the Hale mansion, feeling what he assumes to be akin to the feeling people get when walking the plank into a treacherous stormy sea. But, hey, nothing safe is worth the drive, right? 

* * * 

The Hale mansion doesn't look like the Hale mansion any more. Or, maybe it looks more like the Hale mansion than Stiles has ever seen it. But, it looks fresh, and white, and it has a front porch where there are three deck chairs, and the orange lights from inside look homely. Stiles finds himself smiling. This isn't the Hale mansion, this is Derek’s home. There’s something very satisfying to Stiles about Derek having a home.

“Look who’s decided to make an appearance!” Erica announces as she opens the door for him. She’s acting surprised but Stiles knows that she heard the Jeep a mile off.

“Well, he’s obviously come to his senses.” Lydia smirks, and it’s obvious that she feels fully responsible for him being there. Which Stiles is happy to let her believe, because it’s less embarrassing than the fact that he came because he got a ‘please’ from Derek.

Talking of whom. Stiles’ eyes wander and find him walking out of the kitchen, Scott trailing behind and shouting a greeting. Their eyes meet and Derek gives a small nod. It’s hardly going to win any awards for the warmest welcome, but there is something in his eyes that tells Stiles that he, at least, realises the reason he’s there. He scans his face, taking in the dark stubble, the still-championing eyebrows, those who-knows-what-colour eyes, the frowny lips. His eyes lower and he’s both thrilled and devastated to find that Derek hasn't moved on from wearing tight tops (maroon this time and Stiles hates that he feels endeared when the guy wears anything other than black), and even tighter jeans. He’s bare-foot though. For fuck’s sake. He’s bare-foot. Just bare-footing it around his cute homely home. And there’s a book in his hand. He’s probably about to go and sit in the armchair by the window and read, and then stop to ponder the words whilst looking out at the stars. Stiles bets he’s going to curl his bare feet beneath his legs to keep them warm and he _hates it._

So, he drags his eyes away, picks a wii controller off the coffee table and starts to play a game of Mario Kart with Boyd. A very animated game of Mario Kart, making his presence explicitly known to make up for lost time, and also so no one notices he’s moving into Phase 2.

* * * 

Phase 2 is called 'Being a good bro, turning up to all the pack meetings with the appropriate games and snacks, but avoiding one-on-one contact with Derek for the sake of his sanity and dignity'. It's pretty easy, as Derek isn't particularly sociable and has always been quiet in these pack get-togethers, drowned out by his overbearing pack. Stiles has aggressive games of Call of Duty with Scott and Isaac, cooks with Lydia and Boyd, has heated discussions with Erica about Batman, lets Allison teach him archery. He’s polite to Derek, of course, responds when he’s spoken to, says hi and bye and things like that, joins in with the group games of baseball until the sun goes down. However, where before Stiles would have joined Derek on his evening run, he now watches him leave into the woods wistfully, but joins Allison and Lydia on the deck loungers and numbs his dissatisfaction with beer.  
  
Last year Stiles would get so aggravated at Derek's lack of initiation - the way Stiles would have to coax him to join conversations, and tell him to stop being a sourwolf and play cards with them, would have to go and sit with him during movies so he wouldn't get away with sitting on his own in the corner. Now he's sort of thankful of it. Even though it still makes him frown when he notices him alone and separate.  Even though when he subtly suggests to Erica that she should play the next round of Call of Duty with Derek, he feels jealous that he's not the one who gets to nudge his shoulder and laugh at how the werewolf enhanced hand-eye co-ordination isn't transferable to video games.  
  
Unfortunately, the lack of explicit contact saves his dignity but not his sanity. Sure, it allows him to keep his heart rate mostly at bay , but there’s nothing to stop the looking and the longing.  
  
Every night, when he’s lying in bed, he’s so frustrated he wants to smother himself with his pillows because he can't stop simultaneously smiling and sobbing over the adorable frowny look on the werewolf's face when he's cooking for them and intently reading the recipe book. Because Derek had his hair looking fluffier than usual and Stiles still feels the twitch in his fingers because of how much he wanted to reach out and touch it, how much he wanted to run his fingers through it and down to his nape, how much he wanted to touch his lips to that throat and put hands on the hard muscle beneath those stupid tight t-shirts. At this point in reminiscence his fingers usually drift under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and he sighs with unhappy acceptance of the fact that when he comes he'll squeeze his eyes tight and Derek's face will be burn bright beneath his eyelids.

* * * 

 

  
It's mid-August, and after months of chilling - albeit it rather stressful chilling for Stiles - and working without any supernatural threats  the first threat makes itself known. He's is just finishing a shift at the library when Scott texts him telling him to find all the books he can on 'evil nymphs' and bring them to Derek's. Stiles rubs his eyes and rereads the message but it definitely says 'evil nymphs'.  
  
So he turns up at the house, with a literal boot full of books, which he has to get Erica and Lydia to help him carry in. They come and drop the books all over Derek’s couch, and find him pacing back and forth in the living room, frowning.  
  
"How bad is it?" Stiles asks, grabbing a chair from under the dining table and straddling it. Braces himself for the worst.  
  
"Bad." Derek says.   
  
"Mm, thanks Derek. You know, you’d make a great news reporter. Maybe send an audition tape to ESPN or something. That's how up to speed I'm feeling right now."   
  
Derek's eyes flash up at him quickly, his face inexplicably soft, and there’s a smile tugging at his lips. Which is weird, because a second ago he was just saying how bad the situation was. When Stiles looks around he realises that Erica and Lydia are also smirking at each other.   
  
Then he realises that this is the first time in over a year he's given Derek anything other than polite small talk. He shrugs internally. Well, old habits die hard, he supposes. And when supernatural things are trying to kill them Stiles and Derek snipe at each other. It's just what they do.   
  
"So, how bad is 'bad'?" He demands impatiently, kind of wanting to flip Lydia and Erica the middle finger for still looking like they want to laugh. Jesus. It was just some scathing sarcasm, what’s some scathing sarcasm between friends?  
  
Derek's small smile falls and he goes back to frowning. "A tree-surgeon has been killed."   
  
"Throat slit." Erica clarifies, offhandedly flicking through one of the library books, informing Stiles the way someone might inform you of the day of the week.  
  
"OK, and why do we think evil nymphs? As opposed to, like, angry ex-wife, or scorned best friend, or psychopathic random murderer?”  
  
"Because this is Beacon Hills." Lydia deadpans.  
  
Point.   
  
"And also because they presented his body with flowers and branches and leaves." Derek explains. "And there's this gold powder that nymphs leave behind, which was all over the body." He walks closer to Stiles and shows him his fingers, which are covered in a gold substance that is sparkling beneath the light of the room.  
  
Stiles reaches out to touch it, mainly just because he's not the sort of person who can see an unfamiliar, glittery gold substance and _not_ immediately reach out for it. It's not until he's gently brushing the pad of Derek's thumb that he realises what he's doing. Immediately he takes his hand away and coughs to try and hide the sound of his heart speeding up. "So, um. I'll do some research?"  
  
Derek is looking at him, with a furrowed brow and confusion mixed amongst the many colours of his eyes and Stiles sighs. Is Derek really the only one who hasn't cottoned on about what it means that he can't keep his traitorous human heart under control from the smallest touch? Is he really that oblivious? He supposes confusion is better than pity, and it's definitely much better that Derek doesn't know but _still._  
  
It turns out nymphs are really just glorified hippies. Glorified hippies with a dark side. The woods in Beacon Hills had been undergoing some tree surgery, they'd been cutting down some of the old trees to make way for new trees yada yada yada, all that stuff that there are polls about in the local newspapers, and some people agree with it and some people don’t, but it doesn't really matter because in the end it gets done anyway. The problem is, according to Stiles' research, that nymphs are protectors of nature, so they’re now pissed off and wanting vengeance on Beacon Hills and its residents.  
  
"Perhaps they just want the tree surgeons dead and then they will stop?" Allison suggests when she turns up with Scott and Isaac, later. They'd gone to check out the woods with Boyd and Erica, who stayed behind to keep watch in case the nymphs had any plans of the murderous variety on their agenda for the night.

 "Are you suggesting we should let them kill the tree surgeons?" Stiles raises his eyebrows. 

Allison flushes. "That's not what I meant. Just, why do you think they want vengeance on the whole town?”  
  
"According to these books, nymphs don’t hand out revenge in halves." Stiles swivels the old hardback he's been reading to show Allison an illustration of hundreds of dead bodies surrounded by all things nature. Two nymphs with long blonde hair and sweet baby faces giggling to each other on a tree above. With blood trickling from their mouths. Allison grimaces.   
  
"When they get mad, they get mad." Derek nods. “Stiles is right.”  And he does not preen, just because Derek said he was right. He does not.  
  
Regardless of debatable preening, he just ticks his head to the side and says, "Naturally." 

* * * 

 It's through a series of unfortunate events that Derek and Stiles become supernatural crime fighting partners for the night. A series of unfortunate events that starts with the '1. Person who possesses supernatural powers with 1. Person who doesn't' rule, and ends with there being four underground nymph dens. Naturally Scott and Allison team up, and then Lydia says she’ll go with Isaac, smirking at Stiles because she knows that Boyd and Erica aren't going to separate. He waits until Derek isn't looking and mouths ‘fuck you’ at her, but she just smiles sweetly and starts discussing tactics with Isaac.

Derek gives him a reproachful look and says, "Fine. Stiles you're with me, then." Which kind of makes him feel like he’s been the last one picked in gym class.  
  
"Whoa, big guy, try and contain some of that unruly excitement.”  
  
A small smile teases Derek’s lips, and Stiles kind of wants to slam his head against something solid, but kind of want to make a list of things he does that makes Derek smile so he can refer back to it and keep that smile on his face always. 

 

* * * 

 

   
"There is no way." Derek growls, flashing his alpha eyes. Stiles wonders whether he realises that for years now that has done nothing to intimidate him and, if anything, turns him on slightly.   
  
"Derek, come _on_. I have Deaton’s magical moss, if I run into them I can use it. Simple. And also the only option we have."  
  
It's kind of ironic that, as nature lovers, nature is the nymphs’ weakness. Deaton had provided them with a rare moss that he had assured them would make the nymphs harmless, by stunting all of their supernatural powers. Basically it would make them about as dangerous as any other tiny woodland creature.  
  
"No."  
  
He lets out a huff of frustration. "Listen, it's not my fault you’re built like a fucking brick wall, OK. I promise you Boyd is letting Erica go in alone."   
  
"Erica is a werewolf." Derek snaps back. "I can promise  _you_ Scott isn't letting Allison go in alone." 

Stiles can't help but pause and think about the comparison between Scott and Allison and him and Derek.He internally chastises himself. "Scott's smaller than you are. It's the  _only way._ "  
  
They're standing at the entrance of the nymphs' den. It's a small entrance. As in cosy for Stiles and damn impossible for Derek.   
  
"Stiles, if you honestly think I'm going to risk- if you think I'm going to put you in that kind of danger then you're - there's just no way." Derek is stumbling on his words and avoiding Stiles' eyes in a way that makes him think there’s something else he really wants to say, but he can’t exactly dwell on it or ask, because _murderous nymphs_.  
  
"OK. Then what do you propose we do? Wait for them to turn up? Sit and picnic here in the woods, calling down into the den every once in a while. Like 'if you fancy coming and sharing our sparkling apple juice before we kill you, come on out. We'll be waiting.' It's not going to _work_ Derek."   
  
"We're not killing them."  
  
"What the fuck ever.” He is at the end of his tether.  
  
"Look, Stiles," Derek says, and he sounds angry. "I don't know if you've forgotten, since you've been gone for so long, but we look out for each other. We don't let defenceless pack members take stupid impulsive risks and get themselves killed. I'm not going to get you killed. I know you don't - I know a few things have changed for you but for me –“ He takes a deep breath in, trying to calm himself down. “ _I don’t want you hurt._ ” He growls.  
  
Stiles stares at him a moment. Because what the fuck?   
  
"You think I would be OK with you getting hurt?" The question is almost laughable as he say it out loud, it's so far from the truth that the words just feel wrong coming out of his mouth.   
  
Derek doesn't say anything, he just shakes his head in dismissal and begins digging at the entrance of the den.   
  
"Derek." More digging. "For fucks sake, that isn't going to work. _Derek_." The werewolf just growls, loud and pissed off. And then suddenly there are tens of knee-high creatures on him, and his growl turns into a howl of pain.   
  
Stiles scrabbles into his trouser pocket for the jar of moss and has them covered and defenceless in seconds. They are still biting on Derek's legs but he just kicks them off with force and gets back up. Stiles loves Deaton and his weird collection of poisonous plants.  
  
"Thanks." Derek mutters.  
  
"Yeah, no, you're welcome.” It’s a testament to his anger, that four seconds ago Stiles had been panicked for Derek’s life but now his voice is dripping with angry sarcasm. “It's almost like I would rather you didn't get eaten alive by thirty demonised woodland creatures, or something." Stiles is not at all chilled with the implied accusation that he doesn’t care. Maybe he’s angry without any right to be because when was the last time he acted like someone who cared? But surely Derek knows him well enough to know that he will always put the protection of the pack at the top of his metaphoric list of priorities? 

Derek doesn't say anything at Stiles’ obvious anger, just calls the others to get a heads up that the other dens are taken care of, before storming off towards the house, leaving Stiles no choice but to scurry after him because they’re quite a far way into the woods and he’s not entirely sure of the route back. 

They're the first ones back and Stiles feels claustrophobic and kind of like he can't breathe properly because Derek is looking all hurt and conflicted and he has barely said a word since they left the woods. Not that Derek is a man of many words under normal circumstances but obviously what he said earlier meant something to him, because here he is looking like a kicked puppy and Stiles would take anger over this in a heartbeat.  
  
"Derek, what you said before…" Stiles approaches, when he can't stand the silence any more (after about ten seconds).  
  
"Don't, Stiles."   
  
"What the fuck?" Because he'd expected Derek to brush this off, but he hadn't expected him to look so tense and upset about it. "You can't really think that I don't," he grimaces " _care_ about you, and stuff, just because I didn't come home for spring break."   
  
Derek looks embarrassed. "You didn't call. Or, you didn't pick up my calls."   
  
He snorts. He doesn't mean to, but he never thought in a million years he'd hear Derek Hale whine because of someone avoiding his calls. Because of _Stiles_ ignoring his calls, no less. He regrets it as soon as it’s out his mouth because he sees Derek closing off in the way he so often does whenever Stiles has managed to get him to open up slightly. There is always a point where he realises he's said more than he'd meant to, and then his eyes glaze and he takes a literal step back, crosses his arms and changes the subject. Stiles had seen it happen so many times, and every time he saw it he wanted to scream in frustration. They'd just been getting good at talking without this happening, before he left.   
  
"Sorry. Sorry, I'm sorry." He rushes.   
  
"I know it's stupid, Stiles. OK. I know."  
  
But it's not.   
  
"It's not." Stiles says softly, and Derek's eyes widen like he'd been expecting Stiles to deny it. Damn, Stiles had expected Stiles to deny it.   
  
"You've been avoiding me." It's not a question.   
  
"Not intentionally." Yeah, intentionally. A whole lot of intentional avoiding going on. "I just- college was weird. It was weird being away."   
  
"Before you left, you were always _here_." Derek is talking to the floor and Stiles wants to stand up and tilt his chin, wants to look him right in the eyes so he knows he doesn't have to be embarrassed about this.    
  
And, Jesus, Stiles is such a dick. 

Being in unrequited love sucks. But Derek _liked him_. He’d trusted him, and opened up to him, and laughed with him in a way Stiles knew he didn’t do with anyone else. Derek wanted him, just not in the same way he wanted Derek. He wanted a friend, wanted what they had before Stiles left for college and became the most selfish douchebag in the world. What a fucking dick move to completely end their friendship just because Derek didn’t desire anything more than platonic friendship, when he knew that friendship wasn't something Derek easily accepted, but he  _had_ accepted it, with Stiles. 

He's up before he can think about it, and pulling Derek into him, he closes his eyes tight and ignores the way everything in him is screaming to _bolt_ , because this is only going to end in his own emotional destruction. But then he feels Derek relax into him, feels a shaky breath on his neck and it's so much more important than what Stiles feels, to feel his relief like this. 

When they separate Derek is so close to his face that he can almost pick out the individual flecks of grey and blue and green in his irises. He wants to have them memorised, wonders if it’s pushing the boundaries of friendship a little far if he just stares into them until he can recite the orders the colours fall. Realises that it probably is, but can’t help immediately moving from eyes to lips and trying to justify leaning forward with his own lips, because a reunion-of-friendship-kiss is a thing, right? Or should be, anyway.  
  
Maybe he would have done it if Erica and Boyd didn’t come bounding through the door in that moment. And saved by the metaphoric bell, because that would have only ended in pain and pity. 

 

* * * 

  
  
  
After that night, Stiles embarks on Phase 3. Which he calls 'fuck it. Literally fuck everything. There is a couple of weeks to gain Derek's trust again. To see him smile that unguarded smile again and fuck it if I'm not going to try'.   
  
So at the next pack meeting, he walks into the living area, clocks Derek sitting in his armchair, and throws a baseball at him. "Right then, sourwolf. Let's get our game on."   
  
Derek frowns that adorable confused frown and Stiles rolls his eyes. He doesn't know how well this friendship thing is going to work if Derek keeps pulling this ‘being absolutely adorable’ shit. He’d have a word about it, set some ground rules, but that would mean admitting something he definitely wasn't ready to admit out loud yet.  
  
"Yeah, I know. I'm a masochist, right. Offering to get completely thrashed at my favourite sport. But, you look like you need some sun."  
  
"You… Want me to play baseball with you so I can get a tan?"   
  
"Well _yeah_ , dude. You wear, like, nothing but tank tops. And the physique is on point, congrats. But you're a little pale."   
  
"Stiles you're the palest person I've ever seen."   
  
Point.   
  
Erica barks a laugh at that, and when Stiles looks around he sees that they're all grinning at him in a way that makes him want to swat them all around the head and tell them to _shut up._  
  
He just rolls his eyes again and jerks his head towards the door. Derek follows compliantly with this goofy smile on his face that makes Stiles seriously consider kissing him just to _check_  he hasn't been reading this completely wrong. Just to check that he couldn't be responsible for that smile sticking around.   
  
'Baseball' between the two of them is just Stiles amusing himself with how far and hard he can throw the ball with Derek still being able to catch it. He dislikes the part where Derek throws it further and harder and gets Stiles to run on his far less impressive human legs.  
  
He's panting and leaning over a stitch. "You know, you're meant to deliver the ball back to me. Haven't you played catch before?"   
  
He's delighted that the dog joke has the exact reaction he knows it will, makes Derek glare and then throw the ball so far it gets lost in the entrance of the woods. "There you go, then. Catch." Derek smirks, presumably and the dismay on Stiles' face as he looks at the distance between himself and the ball.   
  
"No way, fucker, you can get that. I have human legs, vulnerable to aches and pains." 

"You have a human mouth, vulnerable to spouting bullshit." Derek mumbles, but he turns and runs to get the ball. 

And it's probably an indication of how instinctive Stiles' asshole personality is that when Derek puts the ball back into his hand he just can't help saying "who's a good boy" and ruffling the soft hair behind his ears.

 It doesn't impress. Derek just pushes Stiles away and starts to walk inside, although Stiles can't help but notice the slight pink tinge to the top of his ears. Notice, and internally coo over. 

"Hey, I'm just joking!! Come back." Derek slows a little and Stiles nearly doesn't add "Here, boy!" but he's Stiles, so he does and Derek just carries on inside, but sticks his finger up at Stiles as he does.  
  
It's delightful. And, yeah, Stiles might be talking about the view of his ass in those crazy tight jeans. Because if he's putting himself through the emotional turmoil of being close to Derek again he might as well let himself enjoy the simple things. 

* * * 

 

The night before Scott is going back to college (three nights before Stiles is going back) they all go for dinner at Derek's. Lydia has them chopping and peeling and mashing for her, and they have a barbecue out on the porch that is grilling sausages and burgers and steaks (lots of, because werewolves eat like they're starving, always). 

The last two weeks had been the best of Stiles’ whole summer, and he wanted to kick himself for ever being so stupid as to think that avoiding his whole pack, avoiding Derek, would do anything other than make him miserable. The fact is that Derek makes him happy. Makes him so ridiculously, teenager-in-love happy, and although it sometimes makes him want to scream that they don’t kiss after their fond teasing, that he has to settle for companionable shoulder bumping when they’re walking together, rather than the threading of fingers through fingers, has to see him with his perfect torso on display 24/7 and can’t _touch._ Well, he can deal with wanting to scream a few times a day, because the happiness he feels at just doing the friendship stuff is totally worth it. Most importantly, Derek seems happier, too. He’s finally started giving out those carefree smiles like they don’t cost him anything, and Stiles would rather burn in the pits of hell than give that up again.

He's realised that ignoring the fact that he's in love with Derek makes everything a little easier. Obviously he can't really make himself believe it, but when the two of them are spending time together, it helps to remember that they are, first and foremost, friends, and Stiles can convince himself that he's happy about it. _Is_ happy about it, when compared with the alternative they'd been living for the last year. Which is why he feels a bit put-out when he’s sitting on the grass in front of the bonfire that Boyd and Isaac had made up, just trying to enjoy a hot-dog and ignore his feelings, when Scott comes up and sits beside him.

"Hey, man," Stiles drawls lazily. It’s one of those nights that seem perfect and never-ending whilst you’re in them, and it makes him feel lazy.  
  
"Are you going to tell Derek how you feel before you go?"   
  
Straight in there with the deep stuff, then.   
  
"What?"

As if there's any point denying it at this point. They'd all smirked at what Stiles assumes was the sickening smell of arousal coming off him in bucket-loads as he'd accidentally watched Derek walk back from the woods topless after a run, glistening with sweat that he'd just wanted to _lick off._  
  
"You're in love with Derek, dude."   
  
Stiles sighs, and looks over to where Derek and Boyd are sitting on the porch. Derek is wearing his leather jacket (which is never not going to do something to Stiles. He’s pretty sure he’ll have a leather jacket kink for the rest of his life and it’s Derek’s stupid fault) and he's listening to Boyd talk with this thoughtful look on his face. He catches Stiles looking and smiles in a small, private way that Stiles swears causes his heart to literally swell. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."   
  
"You need to tell him, man!"   
  
"Why?" Stiles snaps. "There's no point. He must already know. It's obvious right? I'm so flipping obviously _stupidly_ in love with him, aren't I?"   
  
Scott shrugs. "Derek isn't as perceptive as some of us." He pauses. "Also, you're actually pretty good at hiding things you know? I only realised this last week, but I guess it's been a while right? That's why you didn't come home last year?"   
  
"Yeah." Stiles admits.   
  
"Do you want that again?"  
  
"It won't be like that again." He insists. "I'm past trying to get over this."   
  
"Yeah, you think that now. But what if Christmas rolls around and you're too scared to come back."   
  
Stiles wants to scoff and say he wasn't too scared. But really, who the hell is he trying to kid? "But he _has_ to _know_ , right?"   
  
"I think you just want to assume he knows so that you can pretend he definitely doesn't feel the same way and you don't have to risk getting hurt."   
  
"I think you need to take your know-it-all tone the fuck away from me."   
  
Scott laughs and bumps Stiles' shoulder. "I’m going home with Allison, now.  It would make my trip to college a lot easier if you came to see me off tomorrow and you'd told him."  
  
"You're manipulative as hell when you want to be, dude."  
  
"I just want you happy." Scott says and he's so sincere. Always so fucking sincere.   
  
"I know you do." He squeezes Scott's shoulder. "I love you, man."   
  
"See! You can totally do this." Scott says as he stands up, and laughs at Stiles' scowl. "I love you, too. See you tomorrow." 

* * * 

 He’s got a list of pros and cons in his head, and is going through all of them, getting more and more panicked as everyone is leaving. He goes through it again as Derek is saying his goodbyes to Erica, Boyd, Isaac and Lydia, who are all, coincidentally, taking a couple of days holiday near a beach before Isaac and Lydia go back to college. Perfect timing, he adds to his list of pros. ‘Cos there’s only one pair of ears in the house to hear him embarrass the hell out of himself. The embarrassment being pretty high on the cons list.

 “I’ll be there to see you off before you go to college,” Lydia assures Stiles, and she’s trying to tell him something with her eyes but Stiles is too much in panic-mode to try and decipher it.

 “Have a good trip, Lyds, see you in a couple of days.”

Derek shuts the door behind them and rounds on him straight away.

 “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, coming to where Stiles is standing by the window, and placing a firm grip on either one of his arms.

 "Huh? What have I done?”

 “No. I mean what’s _wrong with you_? You smell like anxiety. And- panic.”

 Fuck.

 “Do I?” he tries a light laugh, and thinks he pulls it off pretty well considering he might be dying of nerves here. 

 “Stiles.”

 “I fucking hate werewolves and your ability to read my emotional state.” He complains. “It’s an invasion of privacy. A guy should be able to panic in peace.”

 “Are you worried about starting back at college again?”

 “Yeah, man, that’s it.”

It’s not exactly a lie. Stiles is worried about starting college again. He’s fucking terrified of having to bro-hug Derek goodbye again and pretend like it’s not killing him. He has to go through the whole process of learning to date and fuck other people, learning to fall sleep without excessive pining. Most importantly, he has to learn to do all of this, and then willingly come and put himself through it all again by coming home for the holidays. And he has to do it, because he's made a promise to himself that the friendship he has with Derek, the ability he has to bring him out of his anti-social shell, is more important than anything else. 

Derek’s eyes narrow suspiciously, and Stiles hopes his half-truth is enough to stop his heart blipping. Then the suspicion is gone and he just looks hopeless, and sad.

 “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong.” He says. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I know that something is.”

 Stiles doesn’t know what the hell that is meant to mean, until Derek’s arms are snaking around his shoulders, and gripping him so tight it feels like he could completely break down, here, but he’d be OK because Derek is holding him together. And he wants to do it so badly, wants to just spill everything into Derek’s chest, where he doesn’t have to see the way his face reacts to the words. It’s dangerous, feeling this safe and protected.

 “Derek, stop,” Stiles says, pulling away.

 He’s frowning at him, confused again. “Sorry. I took you for a hugger.”

 At that, Stiles bites out a laugh. The furrow between Derek’s brows deepen, making him look so bloody cute that the manic laugh catches in his throat and comes out strangled, and embarrassingly like a sob, at which point Derek looks equal parts confused and alarmed.

 He takes a deep breath. He’s going to do it. Except he’s Stiles so just coming out and saying things the way functional people would say them isn’t something he knows how to do, exactly, so here he is still manically laughing, and Derek is looking more and more alarmed.

 “Stiles, what the-“

 “You know what, Derek, you are absolutely unbelievable.”

 “Me? How?”

 “You say things like ‘I took you for a hugger’, and it’s just one of the many small things you do or say that make me realise how fucking perceptive you are. You’re always surprising me noticing things that really don’t even matter. You bought ranch dressing and keep it in your fridge, even though you don’t like ranch dressing, you just did it because you noticed I always order it when we get take-outs. And when I noticed, you have no idea how much my brain wanted to mock you for it, but then I really thought how insane it was that you’d even noticed about the ranch dressing. And then, when it was finished, you bought more. You noticed it was gone, even though you don’t eat it yourself. You’re so damn perceptive, dude.”

 Stiles watches Derek as he speaks, he’s looking right at him, because if he’s going to do this he might as well fucking do it. And he’s spent the whole summer denying himself the simple, yet undeniable pleasure of just _looking_ at Derek. This might be the last time he can do that before it becomes far too embarrassing or upsetting, so he’s going to take his chance while he can. He notices, as he talks about the ranch dressing (which he _knows_ is a really fucking weird route to take, but he’s just running with his brain here, ok), the top of Derek’s ears turn pink and Stiles wants to reach over and cover them with his hands because it’s so not fair that Derek is blushing when he’s about to lay down his soul.

 “Stiles,” Derek whispers, looking at the ground like he’s embarrassed about something. And Stiles really doesn’t _get it._ “I don’t know why you’re saying this.”

 So he continues. “You’re so damn perceptive, dude, but you’re so damn _oblivious._ It’s really quite a bizarre phenomenon, I bet there are scientists somewhere who’d be really interested in how the fuck someone can notice all the little things that don’t matter and miss the massive colossal things that really fucking do.”

 “I don’t understand, what have I-“

 “I love you, Derek. Damnit! I'm really really in love with you.”

Once he’s said it, looking at Derek is too much for him to take. Despite being an alpha, the werewolf has never held so much power as he holds right now, because he could literally ruin Stiles with a couple of words or a look. He lowers his eyes and carries on talking, half because word-vomit is something he’s prone to, and half because he’s nervous to give Derek a word in edgeways. “And talking of missing colossal things, bro. You notice the dressing I eat on my dirty burgers, but you miss the way my heart basically beats out of my chest whenever you even bloody _smile_ in my direction? You ‘take me for a hugger’, but you didn’t even wonder whether maybe there was something more to it, when I left for college and hugged you like I didn’t want to let go? Well, buddy, I fucking didn’t.” He paused, still looking at the floor. “And, I don’t think it will ever get to the point where I hug you and letting go is anything other than hard.” His voice sounds raw, and he’s got this lump in his throat that he keeps having to swallow down.

 He waits for Derek to say something, looking at the ground and noticing, with distant amusement, how his socks have black wolves all over them. He wonders whether they were a joke present from Isaac or Erica, thinks they probably were and wonders whether Derek huffed a begrudging laugh when he picked them out of his draw to put them on this morning.

 Then he remembers that his heart is metaphorically offered in front of him right now and the air becomes thick, the silence too deafening, so he looks up to meet disbelieving eyes.

 “I know you’re not one for words, Derek, but come on. Please say something. I know you can hear my heart right now, and I, for one, am kind of concerned about the health risks of it beating this quickly.”

 In his defence, Derek does open his mouth, like he _means_ to say something, but all that comes out is this little disbelieving noise. Stiles huffs out a frustrated breath and he’s probably about to complain, about how this is kind of a dick move, to leave him hanging like this, about how he was being serious when he said he was concerned about the state of his heart. But just as he’s about to dive into it, Derek leans into him, taking the words out of his mouth with the intensity of the proximity.

 Green-blue-grey eyes look right into him, and Stiles knows they’re trying to say whatever Derek  cannot, but it isn’t until his hand squeezes his nape, and he slowly presses his lips against Stiles’, that he gets what that is. 

 For a minute, he lets himself enjoy it, lets his insides squirm with every change of pressure in Derek’s lips, lets the goose bumps rise along his arms as they reach up, one clutching around ridiculous shoulders and one reaching to run through a tuft of soft, downy hair. He knows he’s making noises that he should be embarrassed about after such a short time of just kissing and maybe he’d be embarrassed if Derek’s own breath wasn’t hitching, if he couldn’t feel a heart hammering against his chest that matches the pace of his own.

Then he forces himself to pull away. “What the _hell,_ Derek?”

 Derek pouts, fucking pouts, and tries to kiss him again, reaches a warm hand beneath his tshirt and runs a finger up and down his spine.

 “Nu-uh.” Stiles says, sternly. Then, “Well, I mean _yeah,_ carry on. But seriously, what the hell?”

 “Stiles, I have loved you for so, so long.”

 “Well, look who’s found his voice.” He says, trying so hard to be witty and smug, but his voice catches and he feels himself overcome with traitorous emotions. “Really?” he whispers.

 “I think it was pretty much inevitable that I was going to fall in love with you, Stiles. You demand my attention, have from the beginning,  and you have no idea how much that bugged me. How we could be out, fighting, our lives on the line and in the back of my mind I’d be analysing some snarky comment you’d made earlier in the day. Or watching you be stupidly brave and I’d fall in love with the brave and be terrified of the stupid.” He takes a shaky breath in that makes Stiles believe every word he’s saying in a way that makes him want to blush, and kiss the heck out of the man in front of him, and kind of like he wants to cry a little.

 “Then, why the fuck haven’t you _said anything_?!”

 Derek chuckles and shakes his head. “I thought you knew. I thought you’d worked it out, and that’s why you tried so hard to avoid me.”

 Stiles' heart breaks. He steps right into Derek’s breathing space. “You are so fucking stupid.” He huffs, and it’s probably somewhat of an oxymoron, the words he’s saying vs. the fondness of his voice, and how eagerly he presses his lips against Derek’s.

 Without the questions whirling in his head, this kiss has the space to be the kind of desperate and relieving that he had needed for so long. It is the nipping of lips, the running of tongues across the rooves of mouths, hot breath and needy hands. Hands which are pressing and insistent and pleading in a way that makes Stiles light-headed. He moves his mouth to Derek’s throat and sucks, eliciting a low moan that goes straight to his dick, making him bite and lick greedily, needing more. When he wraps a leg around Derek’s thigh – subtlety never being one of his strong points – he stops and looks at him with glazed eyes.

 “Stiles, can I-“

 His hands ghost over the zipper of his jeans and Stiles nods fervently.

 “God, yeah, fucking do it.”

 Derek lifts him up with ease. It’s the hottest fucking thing ever, how he can so swiftly lift him up and lower him onto the couch, without so much as a grunt. Stiles is thinking of how many positions they’re going to be able to do because his boyfriend (yeah, boyfriend, Derek can suck it if he thinks for a second Stiles isn’t going to use that title after he spouted all that cheesy love stuff) has supernatural strength. He’s imagining how easy it is going to be for Derek to fuck him against a wall and the thought alone makes him whine Derek’s name in a way that sound so much like dirty porn, that Stiles stiffens for a second before he realises that Derek’s dick literally just twitched against his thigh.

 Stiles is overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the amount of layers between skin. He feels antsy with the desire to get skin-on-skin contact _right fucking now._

“Derek.”

 “Mm?” Derek murmurs against his lips, sending vibrations through him that reach his toes and make them curl in the best way. 

 “I need you-“ he gasps as Derek’s finger skim across a hard nipple underneath his t-shirt. “Naked. I need you naked.”

 He knows Derek is smirking because he feels it against his throat, and there’s an instinctual part of him that wants to tell him to fuck the fuck off, to not let him win. But then Derek’s hand is palming him through his trousers and fuck it, he _is_ a winner. Is a goddamn champion. He groans in combined frustration and arousal, and reaches his hands to pull off his own goddamn jeans, but Derek’s swats him away and he gets a nipped collar bone for his troubles.

 Then he slowly, _agonisingly slowly,_ pulls off Stiles' jeans and boxers, and then his own, takes time to kiss inside his thighs, coming up and taking off both their shirts, kissing up his tummy, swirling a tongue around his nipple, biting his throat. Stiles is coming so, so undone beneath him, and he knows from the heavy, hot weight of Derek’s own dick that this is effecting him as much, so he takes the bull by the horns and jerks his hips upwards, making Derek drop his head to the crook between his shoulder and neck, and groan the dirtiest groan he’s ever heard.

 Stiles flips them over (except, ok, he clearly doesn’t because he doesn’t have the kind of power to flip 180 pounds of pure muscle, but Derek gets the intention and complies), and pushes Derek against the armrest of the couch, so he’s half sitting up. Then he sits on his lap, wraps his legs around Derek’s waist and grinds into him, slowly, deliberately, dirtily. He revels for a moment in the lustful look in Derek’s eyes, but drops his face into his neck as the pleasure builds.

 They come within seconds of each other, and as Stiles gasps ‘ _Derek’,_ Derek murmurs ‘I love you’ into his chest. Stiles leans back and cocks his head in disbelief.

 “You fucking love me.” He repeats.

 Derek laughs and Stiles could die right now, could die with both of their come mixed on his tummy, which the last words out of Derek’s mouth being ‘I love you’, with his laugh leaving a raw, unguarded grin on his lips, and he would die happy.

 “I can’t believe we could have been doing this all summer.” Stiles shakes his head and flicks at Derek’s nipple, because this is definitely his fault. “Or, I could have come on that spring break trip, we could have fucked in Lydia’s auntie’s hot tub.” Derek just raises an eyebrow and Stiles’ face is invaded by one of those smiles that just catches you out of nowhere, because Derek and his stupid eyebrows are naked below him and he doesn’t really care about all the missed opportunities, because he actually gets to have this,now. “Talking of fucking. Scott told me I had to tell you about my _feelings_ and shit, so he could travel easy tomorrow. I kind of want him to have other things to think about, to make his trip not so easy.”

 “Like?”

 Stiles leans in close and breathes into Derek’s ear. “ _Like_ I want him to be able to smell that I have been well and truly fucked by Derek freaking Hale.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

“I hate this,” Derek grumbles, and he almost looks like he means it, pulling on his sweater and frowning at himself in the mirror. “I’m almost missing last year. And last year all we did was exchange gifts and then moan about you not being there.”

“Please,” Stiles scoffs. “Last year you were in love and pining. You love me and you love my Christmas spirit. Now would you come downstairs? Dad is all kinds of nervous about your gift. He wants to show how cool he is with the whole you-and-me thing.”

They’d kept it quiet for the first month (from the Sheriff, the whole pack knew as soon as Scott knew, and Scott knew as soon as he saw Stiles after That Night, much to his disdain and Stiles’ smug satisfaction) mostly because Stiles was afraid that his Dad would be freaked out about the whole age thing, and the whole sort-of long distance thing. He probably was a little, at first. Spent a great deal of time saying how much he trusted both Derek and Stiles to be sensible, saying it with a smile that Stiles could tell was a little forced, even with his crappy FaceTime signal. Then Thanksgiving happened, and it helped to remind the Sheriff that Derek wasn’t some creepy son-predator, he was just Derek, and he liked Derek.

Now he spends a lot of time trying to bond, which Stiles thinks is weird but Derek insists he actually kind of enjoys the fishing trips, and the barbecuing. Stiles is just happy that the two of them have each other when he’s not around, that they can look out for each other. Sometimes Erica and Boyd don’t report the things he needs them to. He’ll ask how many times Derek has left the house this week to do something other than grocery shopping and they’ll reply, in confused voices, that Derek seems fine. But that’s not answering the question, really. His Dad is more helpful in the things that matter, tells Stiles when Derek seems to be stuck in a grumpy rut (and then Stiles invites him over and they ungrump him with sight-seeing and sarcasm and sex, and by having actual ‘talking it out’ conversations, which they’ve both improved at marginally). And Derek makes sure his dad doesn’t eat too much crap, even cooks for him sometimes. It’s a nice deal.

Now, it’s Christmas Eve. They’re at Derek’s – the whole pack including his dad and Melissa – and Stiles has provided everyone with Christmas jumpers (everyone who needed one. Scott obviously already had an impressive collection. They wouldn’t be friends otherwise). And Derek is being grumpy about his red and green fairisle sweater with the two gingerbread men on it, because he often still pretends to be this Big Grumpy Werewolf, and Stiles likes it because it usually just means he wants to be coaxed out of it with kisses and bribes for more.

“I look like an idiot.”

“You look cute as hell, stop it.” Stiles rolls his eyes. He knows the drill, he just needs to shower Derek with compliments, say something about them being boyfriends, maybe plead a little, and Derek begrudgingly lets him have his own way. About unimportant things like this, at least. “Besides, I picked that jumper out especially because the two gingerbread men remind me of us. Look how grumpy this one is? That’s you.”

He kisses his forefinger and brings it to the Gingerbread man on Derek’s sweater with the slightly more frowny mouth. “See? It’s a boyfriend jumper.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m your big goofball idiot who really likes to see you in a Christmas jumper.” He perches himself on Derek’s lap, on the edge of the bed that they share when Stiles is over. “Anyway,” he chuckles. “Boyd’s sweater lights up and sings, so count yourself lucky.”

Derek still doesn’t look convinced, he’s sticking his chin into Stiles’ shoulder and not expressing Christmas spirit the way Stiles would like him to.

“Hey. Here’s an incentive.” Stiles begins.

“Mm?” Derek is kissing into his neck, hands sneaking up under his sweater and tracing warm patterns into the skin of his back. “The quicker we go down and enjoy the festivities, the quicker everyone goes home, and the quicker we can come back to bed. And you know what, it’ll probably be gone twelve. So, Birthday sex.”

Derek ducks his head as he laughs. It’s something he does, when Stiles’ tell a bad joke, or a predictable joke, or a mocking joke, Derek ducks his head and huffs a fond laugh, and it always makes him feel warm and smiley. Whatever, they’re fucking gross and in love, ok? They're gross and in love and definitely having birthday sex tonight and then Christmas sex in the morning. 

 

 

**The end**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I have never published porn before, and even though this is tame compared to a lot of fics out there, I apologise profusely if it's awkward or dorky, and if you think it is, please give me constructive criticism to change it! Which goes for the whole thing not just the light porn. 
> 
> If you have thoughts on Sterek, or Teen Wolf in general, I cry about both on a daily basis and would love it if you'd find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/the-boy-and-his-wolf) and do it with me!


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